


in craters like the moon

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five months, five defining moments in their relationship. College AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in craters like the moon

**Author's Note:**

> for [poppy](http://mickeymilkowitch.tumblr.com/), who requested "anything? (that possibly references at least one or both of their hands at some point bc i am obsessed with hands i’m fine" they definitely.....have hands in this. happy birthday :)

  **JANUARY**

 

          Ian can feel Mickey’s eyes on him when he stretches to tug their bags down from the overhead compartment.

          “Aren’t you supposed to be getting our backpacks together?” Ian reminds him.

          He can hear Mickey mocking him quietly and rolls his eyes as he sets their bags down heavily on the floor. They shuffle awkwardly, trying to shoulder their own backpacks and sling their dufflebags comfortably across their chests. Ian nearly elbows a woman passing down the aisle, and she throws him a nasty look before turning away. Ian grimaces but says nothing, and when he turns back, he’s slightly mollified to see the ugly look on Mickey’s face.

          “Come on,” he says, infusing as much affected cheer into his tone as humanly possible. “These bags won’t unpack themselves. Or haul themselves to campus.”

          At Mickey’s acquiescent eye roll, they step into the aisle themselves and have to somewhat elbow their way through the crowd to make it out onto the platform, Mickey just barely squeezing through before the doors close. He idly flips off the train while it starts going again, off to the next station, and Ian turns around and starts lugging his things towards the exit.

          “I’m pretty sure your roommate actually _would_ unpack your bag if he could,” Mickey argues, catching up to him and seamlessly resuming their conversation from before.

          Ian slows his pace until they’re both slouching comfortably along. Mickey shoots him a look when he holds the door for him, but Ian just smiles pleasantly and falls back into the step with him, out on the street.

          “Pretty sure my roommate would do anything if you cracked your knuckles enough while you asked,” says Ian. “Not his fault he isn’t as…”

          He trails off, searching for an appropriate and not entirely cruel description, but Mickey jumps in to supply a less gentile ending.

          “He’s a pussy,” he says bluntly. “A run-of-the-mill, trust-fund frat boy asshole. Who, for all his talk, scores zero women and would back out of a fight as soon as I broke his nose.”

          “Yeah, well,” Ian agrees blithely. “Let’s not find out, yeah? Oh hey, let’s stop for breakfast before we get there!”

          He points excitedly at a sandwich shop across the street, and Mickey eyes him dubiously, no doubt put off by the detour across the four-line intersection. Ian sighs, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to look pleadingly in Mickey’s direction.

          After a second’s standoff, Mickey scrubs his hand over his face and sighs.

          “Fuck, fine,” he mutters. He steps close and bumps a knuckle under Ian’s chin as he passes to hit the button for the crosswalk, knocking his face up a little, and Ian lights up. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Gallagher. C’mon. You’re buying.”

          Ian smiles unreservedly after him and follows Mickey across as the light turns green for them to pass.

          Mickey does make him pay, and he has to eat his sandwich on the go as they immediately head back out onto the sidewalk to continue their walk towards campus.

          “One more block,” Mickey huffs, while Ian wanders a little ways away to throw out his sandwich wrapper and Mickey turns yet another corner.

          Ian picks up the pace a little to rejoin Mickey’s side and smiles over at him. “Just a half of one,” he says.

          He can see the top of the com building from here, and he lengthens his stride a little, eager to be done carrying his luggage and be back at school already. As much as he loves his family and being home for the holidays, now that he’s been out of the loop for most of the few years since he came to school, he spent most of winter break longing to be back on campus. Mickey coming home with him this year had barely been enough of a perk to fully alleviate his longing.

          Mickey curses at him until he slows down again, and Ian does, shooting him a little apologetic smile. When he stretches his hand out, Mickey shuffles his bags around until he can take it, so Ian knows he isn’t too aggrieved.

          They barely crest the slight hill that passes the main campus sign when Ian stops to pull Mickey close, and he presses a kiss to just beside his ear before moving his lips to whisper directly to him.

          “You know,” he says, low and sweet, “I really appreciate you coming back with me. Means…a lot.”

          He can see the edges of a smile creep across his mouth from where he’s tucked against the side of his face.

          “You made a hell of an argument,” Mickey says, squeezing the hand still slipped in his. “And thanked me almost nonstop from the second we set foot in your house.”

          Ian laughs embarrassedly, and presses his forehead to the side of Mickey’s to groan piteously. “Well, my family…I figured you’d need the encouragement to deal with them.”

          Mickey pinches him in the arm, and Ian opens his eyes and sways back a little to look at him.

          “Yeah, well, I had to save your sorry ass from dying there without me,” says Mickey. A light blush colors his cheeks as he says it, almost indiscernible, but he’s still grinning. Ian bites his lip and smiles back. “Glad to be back on campus though,” Mickey continues, now a little more blustery, like usual, “Less fucking drama.”

          He turns away from Ian then, eyes skimming the landscape before them, and Ian doesn’t think before he tugs Mickey around and seals his lips to his. Mickey’s smile against his mouth never fails to shoot warm butterflies through his stomach, and now is no different; he lays his free hand across Mickey’s cheek, keeping him close while Mickey settles his own on Ian’s sides. His hands are warm through Ian’s shirt and his fingerless gloves.

          When they pull apart, Mickey’s cheeks are even pinker than before, looking tinged like from cold. He hunches his shoulders a little, pulling his chin into his scarf and jacket, and Ian grins. He reaches out to fiddle with the top button on Mickey’s coat, struggling to close it one-handed, but eventually he manages to snap the button so that his scarf is trapped between the top two buttons, keeping it in place around his neck.

          Mickey smiles his thanks, and Ian squeezes his hand and says, “I love you.”

          The laugh that comes then is sudden, sharp and shrill through the air as Mickey tosses his head back. He’s glowing and brilliant when he tugs on Ian’s hand, pulling him further onto campus in the direction of his dorm.

          “Love you too. Come on, let’s throw our shit down and go find some hot coffee.”

          Ian grins and follows him down the street. Second semester looks bright already with Mickey leading him through.

 

 

 

**OCTOBER**

 

          “I’m in hell,” Mickey groans as he throws his books onto the table beside Ian.

          Ian looks up when his backpack hits the wood, pulling one of his earphones out and glancing behind them at the group of girls staring at them. One of them glares unabashedly; Ian shrugs apologetically, and when he turns back to Mickey, he sees that he followed his line of sight and is flipping the glaring girl off. When he finally pulls the chair beside Ian’s out, he does so with a loud scrape along of the floor, and sighs right before he slams his head down onto his folded forearms.

          “You’re making this library hell for everyone else,” Ian says lightly. When this garners no response, he pokes Mickey lightly in the arm. “Mick? Mickey? Complaining about midterms isn’t gonna make midterms go by any smoother.”

          “Ian?” he says, and Ian can immediately tell that he’s mocking his tone, even before Mickey lifts his head and he can see the sour look on his face. “Ian? Being a jackass isn’t gonna endear me any more.”

          “But it is gonna help you pass your exams,” Ian says matter-of-factly. He points at Mickey’s bag. “Get studying, asshole.”

          Mickey sneers at him as he pulls his bag towards himself and rifles through it for the books and materials he needs. Ian’s eyes linger on him for a few more seconds before he turns back to his own work and resumes highlighting his pages upon pages of calculus notes, trying to make the formulas stand out to copy down onto a single sheet later.

          After about fifteen minutes, Mickey says, “That one’s wrong.”

          Ian looks up and sees that, while his books are technically open, Mickey has his elbow propped up on his anthropology textbook and he’s leaning over to look at Ian’s notes instead. Ian raises his eyebrows.

          “Which one?”

          “That one,” Mickey says, pointing unhelpfully at the page. Shaking his head, he grabs Ian’s pencil from beside the notebook and leans closer to him and the notes. When he scoots his chair a little closer, his thigh presses up against Ian’s beneath the table, warm and firm. Lightning shoots up and momentarily electrocutes Ian’s heart. He almost wishes it wouldn’t; whatever he and Mickey have—whatever easy, simple, no-strings thing Mickey insists on— _we’re just friends, we’re just friends_ , Mickey says it all the time and so does he—he doesn’t want to lose his friend just because he can’t control his own goddamn body temperature when he’s around.

          Either way, his paralysis goes unnoticed, as Mickey leans further into him and scribbles on his paper.

          Ian doesn’t hesitate reciprocating—maybe some people would consider it pushing, but he prefers thinking of it as chasing what he wants—and he presses his arm up against Mickey’s as he bends forward to peer at what he’s written.

          “Isn’t that what I did?” he asks.

          He trails his finger along the page from Mickey’s formula to his own, then taps the series of numbers and variables and looks up into Mickey’s face, so close to his own. Ian’s eyes drop to his mouth, but Mickey’s still looking at his homework, so Ian takes his time tracing his gaze up Mickey’s jaw, his cheek, memorizing every minute freckle until he gets back to his eyes and then follows them down to the paper.

          “…and if you forget to turn this second part into the derivative too then your whole answer will be wrong,” Mickey’s saying when Ian tunes back into his lesson.

          He nods seriously like he’s been listening and studies what Mickey’s written one more time before shooting a look at the textbook open on the other side of the table.

          “Thanks for the help, but shouldn’t you be reading all the anthro chapters you skipped when you were ‘studying’ in my dorm the last three weekends?”

          “Oh, sorry,” he says in this falsely polite tone that has Ian rolling his eyes before he even really gets going, “Shouldn’t they have notified me if the system got me a new mother? How about you let me do what I do and I’ll help you do what you do, and everybody wins?”

          Ian gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “How does that help you pass your exams and stay in school?” he asks, all mock-thoughtful as he strokes at the light stubble he’s developed over the past few days when he’s been too swamped in work to pay strict attention to the minor stuff, like shaving or sleeping. “Oh, right. It doesn’t.”

          Mickey throws him a withering glance. “If you have a way to make this shit interesting, I’m all ears,” he says, looking smug when Ian is momentarily stumped.

          Ian, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, turns back to his calculus notes and shoves at Mickey’s shoulder until he shuffles back to his side of the table and starts reading his anthropology textbook again.

          Ian can’t really focus, though, Mickey’s words stubbornly locked in his head. He finds himself zoning out towards his profile, and after a few minutes, Mickey looks up. A harassed expression has settled onto his face, but it melts into confusion when Ian grins at him, slow and thoughtful.

          “I have an idea,” Ian starts.

          “God help me,” Mickey mutters.

 

          Ian walks much faster to the dorm than Mickey does once they leave the library, possibly because Ian knows his plan and Mickey doesn’t. Mickey grumbles almost nonstop but that does not stop Ian from repeatedly shooting excited looks over his shoulder at him.

          “Why are we going to my dorm?” Mickey groans as Ian leads them up the stairs to the second floor.        

          “Because I have a roommate and you, Mr Too-Grumpy-Not-To-Live-Alone, do not. Key please.”

          He holds his hand out expectantly, but Mickey elbows him roughly out of the way instead and sets to jiggling it around in the faulty lock. Ian bounces back on the heels of his feet, waiting.

          “You know, I don’t need any of this shit to be an _art major_ ,” says Mickey as he flicks on the light and leads Ian into his messy bedroom. “Fucking gen eds.”

          “Yes,” Ian agrees blankly, because it’s easier than pointing out that Mickey has had this complaint every single time he’s had a quiz or paper or exam in any non-art class.

          “Think they’re fucking _helping_ me, like fucking _anthropology_ ’s gonna matter.” He throws his bag under his bed while Ian sets his a little more carefully on the floor by the door, then hops up onto his mattress. He didn’t elevate his bed, which Ian’s been thankful for more times than once.

          Ian joins him on the bed and they both lean back against the wall, stretching their legs out until they hang off the end. Ian grins.

          “Yeah, who needs to understand culture when you’re gonna spend all day holed up in an art studio, flipping off any person who dares interrupt you?”

          He bumps Mickey’s shoulder as he says it, clearly joking, but Mickey throws up his hands.

          “I know!” he shouts. “Fuck. So fuck all this ethna—ethno—”

          “You’re really proving your ‘I don’t need to take this’ point here,” Ian says wryly.

          Mickey flips him off. “Fuck you. And fuck anthropology.”

          Ian grins this time and scrambles up to reach under the bed for Mickey’s backpack, which he plops between them as he sits back on his haunches and starts rifling around.

          “I can give you one, but not the other,” he says while he digs through for Mickey’s notebook and a pen.

          “What are you talking about, man?” Mickey sighs, though he cranes his neck to peek when Ian sits back down beside him and opens the notebook to a clean page. He smooths it out and puts the pen to it, then shoots Mickey a look and turns until he can’t see the page anymore.

          “Go offer me a beer,” he says dismissively, starting to write.

          He can feel Mickey’s disbelieving eyes on him, and can definitely hear the insults he hurls his way, but he steadfastly ignores him and eventually Mickey does get up to get them both a can of beer. While Ian writes, Mickey gets out his sketchpad and starts finishing off a different assignment.

          “Okay!” he says finally, and Mickey looks up. “I hope you wrote down all the vocab you need. So, I used your notes to make these questions. You get one right, I get to strip you. Got it?”

          “How does _me_ getting naked encourage me at all?” Mickey asks.

          Ian smirks, and drags his eyes heatedly down Mickey’s body. “Because it encourages me,” he says lowly, meeting Mickey’s gaze again. “And then I can encourage you.”

          Finally, Mickey matches his smile.

          Ten minutes later, he’s in his boxers on his back while Ian kisses and licks a line down to his waistline, and he curls a hand into Ian’s hair when he pauses to suck messily at the skin above his hips.

          “Come to my exam,” Mickey breathes. “You’re…some kind of encouragement.”

          Ian laughs. “There’s a whole other reward system once you pass,” he assures him.

 

          They don’t get their exams back for three weeks. They both pass every one, and won’t let each other leave Mickey’s room all weekend.

 

 

**DECEMBER**

 

          Ian doesn’t remember all the reasons he was supposed to give Mickey space as soon as he sees him in his sweatshirt.

          Ian goes over after they both get out of class, as he usually does, even though he’s not entirely sure that he’ll be welcome this afternoon now that Mickey’s upset. He’s not sure whether Mickey’s mad at him, or just mad in general and being a dick about it for the last four days. Nevertheless, he makes his way straight to Mickey’s building after he leaves his last class, up to the second floor where he braces himself for a moment before hitching his backpack up his shoulder, taking a deep breath, and knocking on the door.

          He still has a hand raised in the air, and his mouth is open for words he hasn’t yet settled on, when Mickey pulls it open. He freezes, his eyes flicking down Mickey’s body (sweatpants and a loose jacket and nothing else) and he forgets everything else.

          “Where did you get that?” he asks.

          Mickey looks down, his brow unknitting. “Where’d I get what?”

          For all he wants to be handsy, Ian remembers that Mickey’s temper is currently a questionable factor, so he instead just brushes some snow out of his hair, carefully tucks his hands into his jeans pockets, and shoulders past Mickey into his room.

          “Just come in, why don’t you,” Mickey bites.

          Ian slips his backpack off and tosses it by Mickey’s desk, and he hears the door slam shut behind him. Taking a deep breath, Ian spins around.

          He considers several different avenues before he settles on, “So, I didn’t piss you off, did I?”

          Mickey startles, obviously wrong-footed by Ian’s nonsequitors and fast-changing curiosity, but he pulls himself together quickly.

          “What’s it to you?” He sounds harsh.

          Ian scoffs and sits on Mickey’s bed, reclining back on the pillows with his hands behind his head. He spears Mickey with a look and, when that alone prompts no response, he rolls his eyes spectacularly hard.

          “Don’t be a dick,” he sighs. “Come on, did I piss you off or not? ‘Cause if I did, I gotta start on my apology blowjobs stat. Otherwise I can go find the mace my sister packed me before I came down for the semester, and we’ll go fuck some poor kid up.”

          This, finally, prompts a little laugh, however tinged with irritation it is, and Mickey crosses the room to him. He pokes him in the side and Ian scoots over, purposefully failing to leave him a lot of room so that, when he climbs up onto the bed with him, they’re completely pressed together sitting against the headboard. Ian tilts his head towards Mickey, giving him his best impression of innocence and adorability. Mickey thumbs affectionately over his jutting bottom lip and says nothing, even when Ian gets bored and pretends to bite at his finger, and Mickey flicks him in the cheek in response.

          “Ow.” Ian rubs his face but quickly drops the kicked puppy dramatics to scoot closer, laying his head on Mickey’s shoulder and looking up at him. “Tell me,” he demands softly.

          Mickey looks away from him, and he scratches at the side of his nose in what seems an idle gesture but that Ian recognizes as an uncomfortable, anxious move.

          Finally, Mickey says, “Winter break starts in two weeks.”

          “I know,” Ian says.

          Exams are next week; of course he knows. Mickey must too. Ian doesn’t start talking about studying, though; instead he turns to rest his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, and when that gets uncomfortable _and_ fails to prompt further explanation, Ian presses his cheek there instead and skims a hand down Mickey’s bare stomach, stopping to play with the zipper on his sweatshirt.

          Mickey sighs and leans his head against Ian’s. “I can’t go home,” he says finally, so quietly that even Ian, inches away from his mouth, can barely hear him. His voice strengthens slightly as he continues, “And I can’t afford an apartment, and I didn’t fill out the fucking paperwork to stay here.”

          “You need paperwork to stay here?”

          “You do if you want a meal plan.” Mickey’s hand covers his, but instead of stopping him, he applies no pressure and doesn’t protest when Ian continues fiddling with the zipper. His thumb strokes softly over the back of Ian’s hand, small and rough and perfect.

          “What about work?” Ian asks, tearing his eyes away from their hands to look back up at him. “Then you could just buy food—”

          “Break month shifts are all filled.”

          Ian frowns. He isn’t sure exactly whether Mickey’s complaining about an inevitable situation or looking for a solution to an avoidable one, so he treads carefully.

          “So you’re going home?”

          Mickey is silent for a long moment. At length, he says, “I guess I am.”

          Ian doesn’t hesitate when Mickey sounds like that: “Come home with me.”

          Mickey freezes; Ian can feel it in the way every muscle against his tenses and tautens. “What?”

          Ian releases the sweatshirt’s zipper and runs his hand up over Mickey’s chest, and he caresses the side of his neck for a split second before reaching to cradle his face with one hand.

          “Come home with me,” he repeats.

          He turns to press a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder and then sits up. When he straddles Mickey, he doesn’t seem surprised, despite the little grunt he makes when Ian sits all his weight back at once. Ian bumps his nose lightly to Mickey’s.

          “Take the train back with me. You can stay in my room.” He pauses, presses a kiss just to the side of Mickey’s mouth. “Stay in my bed.” Another kiss, a little further away. “Meet my family, spend Christmas with us.” He feathers more kisses all along Mickey’s jaw, trying to distract him from that particular proposition. He presses his smile into Mickey’s cheek and then whispers by his ear, “Go on, spend Christmas with your boyfriend.”

          Mickey’s smile is evident against his when Mickey pulls him down to his mouth, his thumbs stroking over his cheekbones and jaw. Ian kisses back for a few seconds, reveling in the way Mickey sucks so lightly on his lip, lost and amnesiac with how he draws him back in over and over, even without ever deepening the kiss at all.

          “So you’ll come?” he asks, too hopeful, so breathless when he pulls away.

          Mickey nods slightly, but Ian can’t tell if he’s just trying to better fit his mouth back to Ian’s. He splays his hand across Mickey’s chest, trying to slow him down and draw out a solid answer, but Mickey’s warm against his body, and Ian finds himself wanting to melt against him and never resurface.

          Mickey solves his problem, pulling back just enough to brush their noses together and breathe, “Yeah, I’ll come.” Then he grins, all goofy and ridiculous, and carefully rolls them over, making sure not to rock them off the small twin bed. Ian’s already halfway through rolling his eyes at what he knows is coming when Mickey says, “I’ll make sure we both come.”

          “Very funny,” Ian says, because it’s not, but Mickey’s laughing anyway when he molds his mouth back to Ian’s.

          After a second, Mickey pulls away again. He looks cracked wide open and sincere when he says, “Ian, I love you.”

          Ian blinks confusedly at him for a moment, blindsided and lost. When the words do filter through, Ian breathes sharply just trying to get his mouth back on Mickey’s, and he manages to roll Mickey onto his back. He’s still leaning down for kiss after kiss before he manages to breathe them back, lost somewhere between their recurrently connecting lips. Mickey’s breathless laughter, warm and happy, lets him know he heard it.

          They just kiss for awhile, and the snow outside has piled another inch higher on the windowsill by the time Mickey lifts slightly away from him, still caging him in with his body without laying fully over him anymore, and Ian both misses the skin-to-clothes contact and doesn’t, because this way he gets to look up into Mickey’s serene, contented face, and he’s open for a rare moment.

          Mickey’s stroking a hand through Ian’s hair, and Ian’s nestled nicely between him and the pillow, and he plays idly with the drawstring on his sweatshirt before he remembers his question from earlier.

          “Is this mine?” he wonders, and at Mickey’s cocked head, he tugs lightly on the string in his fingers.

          Mickey smiles then, softly. “Mighta left it here,” he admits.

          Ian bites back most of his smile. “Why are you wearing my clothes, Mick?” he teases.

          Mickey pulls harshly on the hair he had just been stroking so nicely, and Ian yelps. Before he can retaliate, though, Mickey leans down and catches him in a sweet, gentle kiss.

          Ian’s already pushed the sweatshirt onto the floor and caught Mickey’s face in his hands when he pulls back to whisper, “Look good in my clothes, baby,” and then immediately presses his mouth back to Mickey’s, soft and undemanding and pliant beneath Mickey’s pressure and attention.

          “Look good in my bed,” Mickey says, as he flattens Ian’s hand on the mattress and slips his fingers into the spaces between Ian’s. He noses at a hickey Ian knows he has on his neck, high on his throat from a few days ago. Then Mickey breathes a laugh and whispers, “Look good taking me home.”

          Ian laughs breathlessly and pulls him back in to keep kissing him—to never stop kissing him—because it’s easier, right now, and the best way he can think of to agree.

 

 

**NOVEMBER**

 

          Ian shakes himself awake again, casting around until he finds Mickey’s hands, which he’s been using to steady himself for over an hour now. He grits his jaw and burrows closer to Mickey’s pillow, eyes on Mickey where he’s at his desk across the room, drawing Ian stretched out on his bed.

          “Just take a damn nap,” Mickey sighs, not for the first time.

          Ian shakes his head. “Wanna see it when you’re done,” he says. “Besides, if I fall asleep, I probably won’t stay still.”

          “You _are_ an obnoxiously restless sleeper,” Mickey agrees, taking a moment to glare at him before he breaks down, shaking his head and chuckling. “It’s fine! Just do it, I know you’re tired. I was up all night with you while you finished your project. Only difference is that I got to sleep in this morning.”

          “Yeah, art students are bastards.” He yawns, ignoring the unimpressed look Mickey levels in his direction, and stretches a little. His muscles love him for it; his joints crack and agree as well.

          “Ian,” Mickey whines, his pencil stilling on his sketchpad once again.

          “Told you you didn’t want me to move,” Ian mutters as he shuffles back into position.

          Mickey’s sneer doesn’t alleviate until Ian shuts his eyes to block it out. Before he has a chance to force himself to consciousness again, however, he falls asleep almost immediately. He drifts in an out for awhile, not deeply asleep enough to dream but not awake enough to entirely stop the nap either. He sinks into it instead, sleep heavy in his bones, the bed warm and inviting around him, Mickey’s scent heavy and heady and enveloping him.

          He wakes up a little while later, shaken closer and closer to consciousness as the minutes pass. First, the bed dips behind him, and Ian shifts away from the disturbance—only to be compensated with a warm arm sliding around his waist, and a solid, comforting heat pressing all against his back. Ian shifts and molds himself against it without thought. Still, despite the cozy security of the disruption, Ian finds himself drifting nearer to wakefulness. When soft lips press gently against his neck, he squeezes his eyes shut one more time before cracking them reluctantly open.

          Surrendering to the instinct to try and fall back asleep, Ian shifts restlessly until the arm around his waist tightens and holds him still.

          “Didn’t want to wake you,” Mickey whispers behind him. “You’ve been out for an hour.”

          Ian nods, eyes already drifting shut again. “I move too much?”

          Mickey laughs quietly from behind him. “No,” he whispers.

          Ian squeezes his forearm and barely breathes, “So how’d the art go?” before sleep claims him again, always easier and faster with Mickey there.

          When he wakes again, he feels a little more alert, a little better prepared to participate in the world. He manages to dig his phone out of his pocket without disturbing Mickey, whose breath he can feel even and slow against his neck, and checks the time: only half past seven. He’s been out for about two hours total, which is certainly enough to breathe a little life back into him. He stretches again, his arms lifting up above his head, and he feels Mickey shift a little against his back.

          Ian turns around as smoothly as he can, and he cups Mickey’s cheek, his thumb rubbing soft and soothing against it. Mickey grumbles something unintelligible, and Ian cracks a smile as he leans over to press his lips to Mickey’s. After a few seconds, he hears Mickey humming against his lips, and he pulls back.

          Mickey’s eyes are open, albeit blearily, and Ian reaches up to brush his hand through his hair instead.

          “You fell asleep on me,” Mickey accuses sleepily.

          Ian suppresses a laugh. “Yeah, well, you fell asleep _against_ me. Your encouragement to be a good model could use some work.”

          “That right?” Mickey says.

          He pushes Ian onto his back as he rolls over him, but the kiss he affords him is gentle and sweet. Ian presses up for one more, then lays back on the pillows, settling in more comfortably. Mickey hovers over him, smiling private and beautiful.

          Ian grins up at him, feeling loose and silly in comparison, and runs his hands up Mickey’s forearms and back down to where they’re lying beside his arms. Mickey’s expression doesn’t change at all. Ian presses his lips together and props his knees up so they cradle Mickey’s hips, and he sways their bodies gently from side to side.

          “What’s up?” he asks.

          Mickey wants to laugh, Ian can tell. He can see it in the way Mickey ducks his head and the lines creasing his forehead and the way he shakes his head a little before he looks Ian in the eyes again.

          “You’re a fucking dork,” Mickey says, right before he presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

          “Yeah, a dork you like hanging out with,” Ian says.

          The easy happiness doesn’t leave Mickey’s face, but Ian drops his eyes, unaware of the sinking weight in his heart until it was already there, dropping heavy on him. He watches his finger as it traces the exposed bit of Mickey’s collarbone.

          He tries very hard not to sigh, but Mickey obviously sees the shift within him, because he maneuvers one of his arms closer until it’s close enough for him to rub his thumb against Ian’s shoulder through his shirt. The gesture, though small and barely noticeable, sparks through Ian like a reigniting fire. He manages a minute lift of his mouth and raises his eyes back to Mickey’s.

          His gaze, and even his voice, is steady when he says, “Are we…We’re not just hanging out.” He pauses, catches Mickey’s jaw tighten slightly, and then adds in a tiny voice, “Are we?”

          Mickey’s thumb isn’t rubbing against his arm anymore, but Mickey only looks guarded and uncomfortable for a few anxiety-filled seconds before he ducks his head, tucking it into neck, and starts pressing little reassuring kisses along his shoulder and collar.

          “You dork,” he murmurs again, but this time, he speaks the tease low and even more affectionate than earlier. “I just spent three hours drawing you. That sound like you’re just a warm mouth to me?”

          The weight in his chest has alleviated, and Ian laughs openly, squeezing Mickey in between his knees.

          “I know,” he says, even though he hadn’t. “Ask me for real.”

          Mickey glances up at him, eyebrow arched. “You’re not serious?”

          “Mickey!” he says insistently. “Do it for real, come on!”

          Mickey groans dramatically, but a second later he grab Ian’s wrists and pins him to the bed. Ian shouts out, fighting against him, and they wrestle briefly before Mickey gets them sitting up, Ian tightly wrapped in his arms. Ian snaps his teeth at the arm Mickey has closest to his mouth, wound around his chest, and Mickey cries out and jerks away.

          “You asshole!” he says. “Did you almost bite me?”

          Ian shrugs. “You like it when I bite you,” he says, right before he digs his finger hard into a spot on his neck that have his teeth marks set starkly into Mickey’s pale skin.

          Mickey shoves him away. “Fuck you,” he says lightly.

          “Is that any way to treat your…?”

          Mickey throws up his hands. “Fuck, fine! I’ll be your goddamnn boyfriend.” He brushes a hand through Ian’s hair, eyes gentle. “Such a tool.”

          Ian shakes his head. “That’s not fair! Don’t do it like that.”

          “Do it like what?”

          “Mickey!” he whines. “ _Ask_ me.”

          Mickey sighs, and Ian’s still pouting when he twists and pushes him flat on his back on the mattress. Mickey sits heavily on his legs, his hands trapping Ian’s hands against the bed. They’re nose-to-nose when Mickey squints at him and says, deliberate and clear, “Ian, do you wanna be my boyfriend?”

          Ian shrugs and says, “Meh.”

          Mickey shouts at him while they roll around wrestling for the second time, and by the time Ian pins him down five minutes later, they’re both panting through wide smiles. Ian barely has time to brush his lips against Mickey’s and say, “Yeah, I wanna be your fucking boyfriend,” before Mickey surges up and kisses him hard.

 

 

**SEPTEMBER**

 

          The worst part, Ian thinks after week one, isn’t his roommate that leaves his clothes on the floor or the music he can hear thumping through the ceiling at all hours of the night or the way he has to do his own laundry and make his own bed, because he grew up with a handful of siblings and has had to take care of both himself and his family for years, which, despite help from Lip and most of the burden on Fiona, was still harder than fending for just himself will ever be.

          No, the worst part is the classwork: Ian, never the smart one, never the academic one, never the one to put his concentration and determination and self-discipline into _education_ , still, after three years of school, can’t fully get the hang of putting his efforts into studying.

          Unfortunately, neither can his project partner.

          “Shit, Mandy, come on. We gotta get this _done_ ,” Ian says to her, right as he shovels another handful of Cheetos into his mouth. And then, “Fuck!” as he gets blown up in their video game _again_.

          “You’re so awful at this,” Mandy snickers. “Shit, would you respawn and help me already? Jeez.”

          Ian throws her a look but quickly turns back to the screen as his character reboots, and before long, he’s lost in the game again. They don’t speak again until they hit pause after a cutscreen and Ian asks if she wants him to roll another joint. At her enthusiastic nod, Ian sets about his task while she reclines across the floor against her backpack.

          “Ugh, thanks,” she says when Ian passes the joint to her a few minutes later. She brushes her hair out of her eyes and fumbles around for a lighter, which she eventually finds kicked under her bed.

          Ian hops up onto her bed and lays back, close enough that they can reach when they pass the joint back and forth for awhile. Mandy turns on some quiet music after awhile, when their joint’s about halfway burnt through.

          “I needed this,” Mandy sighs. “I’m fucking beat all the time lately—”

          “Yeah, because we’ve been doing so much work today,” Ian snorts. The pang in his gut from neglecting their project barely registers through the haze that his mind has become.

          Mandy slaps blindly up at him, catching him on the calf. “Shithead, that’s not what I mean. I got work and class and shit, I barely have time to do my homework, let alone a fucking _project_ already. I mean, seriously, it’s the first month of classes. The fuck is up with that shit?”

          Ian shrugs, breathing deeply off their joint again and dangling his arm down until Mandy slides it out from between his fingers. He breathes out steadily, keeping the smoke in his lungs for as long as he can, before he answers her.

          “Don’t know. Professor has a bundle of sticks up her ass or something.”

          “Fuck that,” Mandy mumbles.

          As she hands Ian back the joint, she gets suddenly to her feet. Ian raises an impassive eyebrow at her, laziness settling in on him heavily.

          “I’m hungry,” she says decisively. “I’m gonna make a pizza run. Stay here and make sure nobody breaks in, yeah? You can even knock out some of our project if you want.”

          Ian flips her off, and she smirks, and as soon as she checks that she has money for food tucked away, she heads out the door. Having received no indication that he shouldn’t, Ian smokes the rest of the joint himself, then opens her window to flick the end outside.

          Even five minutes later, with the breeze wafting through the open window and Ian innocently on his phone, he knows that Mandy’s room must reek. She swore up and down that her RA didn’t care, but Ian’s heart nevertheless jumps up into his throat when the doorknob twists, far too soon for it to just be Mandy back with the pizza.

          A boy, maybe a year older than Ian, marches into the room without knock or greeting, apart from the loud way he walks and the louder way he declares, “Yo, Mands, you got that twenty you owe me or—”

          His eyes find Ian on the bed, and Ian stares wide-eyed back at him, and the door that shuts behind him with a soft _click_ sounds suspiciously like Ian’s sealed fate as he’s locked in with the rough-looking boy.

          He scratches at the corner of his mouth with a tattooed finger, and his eyebrows arch dangerously when he says, “Who the fuck are you?”

          Ian pushes himself a little further up the bed, subconsciously straightening. He offers a small wave, and then, when that goes unreciprocated, scrabbles his fingers uncomfortably at the side of his cheek instead.

          “I’m Ian,” he says.

          The boy just looks at him. Everything about him says, _So what?_

          “We’re doing a project together,” Ian babbles on, despite every synapse in his head telling him to stop talking. “It’s this really complicated thing about setting up a fake business and garnering customers and interests…Right, well, anyway. Yeah. Project partners.”

          The boy just keeps staring, unimpressed and challenging all at once. When Ian clears his throat awkwardly, indicating that he’s done making an ass of himself, the boy finally reanimates.

          “Right,” he says, drawing the word out. “Well, anyway…Why are you here right now? Where the fuck’s my sister?”

          Ian jerks up then fully, away from the pillow he was laying on. His mouth drops open a little.

          “Oh, you’re Mandy’s brother!” he says then. “Shit, okay. I thought you were going all jealous boyfriend on me.”

          The boy makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

          “Oh, thank god. Shit. Yeah. Mandy’s just on a pizza run, she should be back in like, ten minutes.”

          The other boy shuffles a little on his feet at that, looking uncomfortable and disinclined to speak. Ian sits up and crosses his legs, leaning back against the wall that Mandy pushed her bed up against.

          “You wanna sit?” he offers, gesturing to the space beside him. “I could roll another joint while we wait for her to get back.”

          Mandy’s brother only hesitates a second before giving an awkward half-shruglike jerk of his shoulders and crossing the room to join Ian on the bed. Ian pulls his backpack up onto his lap to dig through it and get started on another joint, then throws his bag back on the floor. He passes the joint to the other boy when it’s completed, who sticks it between his lips. When he turns to Ian, silently asking for a light, Ian gazes steadily back at him as the flame sparks up between them.

          “What’d you say your name was again?” Ian asks, watching his lips form a perfect O as he begins to blow rings into the air.

          The boy smiled lopsidedly at him. “I didn’t,” he says, and when he passes the joint to Ian, an electric thrill shoots up directly to his heart.

          Ian breathes deeply, and he can feel the boy’s leg against his, their shoulders pressing together, his eyes fixed on his profile. He exhales steadily, then turns to the boy. He holds his hand out, and as Ian slots the joint between his fingers for him, the boy smirks thrillingly at him and says, “I’m Mickey.”

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu :*](http://badlandd.tumblr.com/)


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